Of all those individuals situated on the eastern continent who bare the same tattooed mark as Vilas, we’ve found exactly none by the end of the second week out. Bulletins to neighboring departments outside the city have ended in two ways: ignored entirely, or a quick shrug of the proverbial shoulders and a wish of good luck in our case. Jason takes it, again, the worst. I don’t know that I’m faring better. Every case that came across SCD’s desk was a puzzle that needed solving, but two weeks of no progress was excruciating even for an experienced detective.

What had begun that first night as a simple gesture to take Jason’s mind off of the sight of the mangled corpse became routine. First one glass of bourbon. Then three. By the turn of the third week, Jason has almost moved into the small living room of my apartment. Some nights we just sit silently, faces shadowed by the dim light that hung over the kitchen island, as we sip at our drinks. When it’s clear by his drooping eyelids and vacant stare that he’s had enough, I guide him to the couch where he throws one leg over the arm and sets to snoring before I can even walk away.

It was nights like this where I perch in the adjacent recliner and just watch the slow rise and fall of Jason’s breaths. It’s been a long time since I had felt the way I knew we were both suffering. A powerlessness in the face of an unspeakable deed. And in watching the life fade from a young soul in front of my eyes. As I drift off myself, I startle awake again suddenly sure that Jason has stopped breathing, only to be met a second later by another snore.

In the morning, still filled with yawns, Jason waddles off to the bathroom to shower and throw up. Sometimes I sit behind him on the rim of the tub, unable to provide any comfort beyond softly rubbing his back as he expels all of his mistakes from the night before. Sometimes I already have breakfast ready by the time he emerges with eyes bloodshot and the same pair of wrinkled slacks cinched tightly around his waist. There’s nothing to say.

I drive him back to his own place to get some fresh clothes. The first couple of days I wait idling in the car to see if he’ll even come back down. Then I start following him up. He excuses himself in a hoarse whisper to go change, and comes back eventually in some variation of his normal slacks and a button-down. In watching him shuffle without energy back over and out of the building, I feel that same bile rise in my throat as examining a corpse. It’s like watching a man die second by second, but for some reason I can’t do anything to stop it.

Until, that is, my phone buzzes in that third week. I’m halfway through my plate of eggs, still listening to the quiet patter of the shower from the other room, when it lights up with the office number. It’s in my hand before I even register the ringing.

“Carter, go ahead.”

“Detective, we have a lead finally out of Trusset Prefecture. Another person matching your mark.”

“Put it all in a folder, we’ll be there in fifteen.”

Modesty aside, I barge into the bathroom. I take in the crumpled clothes, the heavy steam that fogs the mirror and chokes the air, the stink of sweat and sick. Jason’s small form curls in the corner of the tub, tears nearly indistinguishable from the water running along his skin. Whatever small words that have propelled me through the door fizzle against my lips, and I sit on the edge of the tub.

I watch the gentle swirl as the shower pools around the drain and disappears. Indecision grips my heart like an icy fist; to help, or to once again let a moment pass in the hope he can sort himself out. Finally, I reach over to turn the water off. Jason doesn’t register that anything has changed. It isn’t until I’ve pulled him to his feet and begun to pat him dry that his glazed eyes turn to me.

“What are you doing?” His voice comes out quiet and raspy.

“They found a lead,” I say.

“Oh.”

He stands still as I work my way from top to bottom and toss the dirty towel into the hamper. There’s some light reinvigorated behind his gaze, but even as I step away he doesn't move.

“Do I have to dress you too? Come on.”

For the first time, I think, in those three weeks Jason chuckles. I nod and back into the hallway.

“What if I say yes?”

I just roll my eyes.

“Thank you,” his hoarse voice says after me.

“Three minutes. I’ll be in the car.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dressed and more lively, we stride into the station and make straight for our small cozy corner office. The folder is laid out on the desk, no secretary in sight, and the shades are fluttering in the breeze. This is wrong. I smell it before I see it in the corner. Jason flicks on the light, still oblivious, bringing the figure into full light. There’s only a flash of black fur before it lunges, diving for the small closet on the other side of the room, rattling the whole while.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Was that—”Jason starts.

I nod and motion him to silence. I sidle towards the desk, careful to stay on the balls of my feet. I’m sure it can hear me, still. Carefully, I pull open the top-most drawer and pull out the black pistol case. As silently as I can manage, I slide the mechanism to the right code and open it. Still here. Pistol in hand, I creep back over to Jason.

“They teach you how to shoot at your academy, boy?” I growl low.

“The basics, but—”

“Two rules: don’t hit me, and don’t shoot until you have to.”

I push the gun into his hands and walk over to the switch. The room plunges back into semi-darkness, the only light the filtered sun through the blinds. The closet is three paces away. I can still smell the thing, stinking of fear and confusion and wolf, and there’s only the barest sound of breathing over the beat of my own heart in my ears. My fingers wrap around the handle, and ever so slowly I inch the door open.

This is the hardest part. The spike of fear in my own chest chiseling away at my confidence, but I persist. The figure is still obscured by the darkness, but I can see the rise and fall of its chest as it pushes back further into the corner. The small tremor as it cowers in terror. I try to hold its gaze, but its eyes dart back and forth, seeking an escape. I can’t get a good look at the shackles around its wrists, but I can tell they’re infected.

“Relax. We’re here to help. Come on out now.”

The figure whines softly, but it stops shaking and relaxes just a little.

“My name is Parga Carter, I’m a detective here. This is Jason. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re the same as you.”

I nod again to Jason, who half-shifts, fur bunching up just under his collar and creeping up over his elongating face until his head is more like a wolf than a man. He waves awkwardly with what is now a paw. Show-off. I shift as well, though with less finesse than Jason, and I can feel my clothes starting to tear at the seams as my abdomen bulks up. I shake it back off as quickly as I can, not wanting to ruin a perfectly good shirt for no reason.

The figure calms more, breathing becoming more regular, and it moves to exit the closet. I step out of the way as it emerges back into the office. Jason flicks the safety on the gun and tucks it into his pocket before pulling over a chair. The wolf cocks its head and points.

“…sit?” it growls, working the word over in its maw.

“Go ahead, we’re going to get you a nice cup of tea.”

Jason and I share a look, and he knows what I mean. The wolf slowly lowers itself into the chair, like it’s unsure how to even sit correctly, and ends up perching awkwardly half-on the cushion. Low-tech planet, but the water starts boiling immediately as Jason punches in what he needs from the machine. Soon enough, he carries over a mug of tea, already cooled enough to drink, and hands it off to the wolf. It tries to configure its paws to hold the mug, but grunts in dissatisfaction when it can’t quite get a grip.

Jason smiles softly, holding one hand under the wolf’s chin and the other brings the mug to its lips. In one long swallow, it downs the tepid liquid and shudders. Instantly, it begins to shrink, fur and nails receding, and after a moment in the wolf’s place is a scarred and broken—and very much not clothed—woman.

“What…what did you…” she whispers, looking herself over.

“Chamomile tea. Never actually had it myself, but I hear it’s actually quite pleasant. An old grandma’s quick fix for pups getting through their first shifts. Though, now, it’s pretty common knowledge as a suppressant for our kind.”

“I’m….human again. I didn’t know I….that I could even…”

“How long?” Jason says.

“I don’t know. Since before I can remember. Since I was a kid.”

“We’ll get around to that later. For now, welcome to the Night Republic, or one of its many worlds anyway. You are free now, but I would suggest you let us get you some medical help.”

Jason flicks the light back on, and the full damage is revealed. The shackles are definitely infected, the skin around them various shades of black and grey, but more so they’ve ground their way underneath the surrounding flesh.

“Free.” The word sounds so foreign to her voice. She grins. “I’m free.”

I leave Jason alone with her as I step outside to call emergency services. They’re there in three minutes, siren startling the neighborhood awake around them, faces coming to windows groggy but interested. Nosy people everywhere. As the two EMTs grab the stretcher out of the back, I fill them in. It’s not the first stray I’ve called an ambulance for, but certainly the first this close to the city itself. A cop quad pulls up as well, and I incline my head over to the side, holding the door open for the stretcher to be wheeled through.

“Officer Ferrou. You got reassigned?”

“About two weeks ago, yeah. One of the local guys is out on leave after a nasty raid. I drew the short straw.”

“Well. Good to see a friendly face, at least. This is a rough one, I think.”

“Heard the call over the dispatch, and when they said six hundred block figured it must be you. How bad?”

“Restraints have receded under her skin. They’re all feral, but this one could barely even talk. No other details yet, I want to make sure she lives before we go hunting.”

“Aren’t you on another case? You have time to hunt some radical?”

“Normally, I wouldn’t. But this is a little different. Believe me or not, this is connected to our investigation.”

The stretcher comes back out of the doors, the woman gripping onto the side with one hand while the other has white-knuckles wrapped around Jason’s forearm. He pats her gently, removing her hold, whispering something to calm her down again. The paramedics load her into the ambulance, and it’s away again before we can say anything.

“They taking her to General on 5th and Hospital?” I ask.

Ferrou nods. “Yeah. Meet you there this afternoon?”

“I imagine so.”

Ferrou claps me on the back before sliding back onto his quad and launching off in the opposite direction of the EMTs. Jason comes over to stand with me.

“Her shackles. You saw them up close?”

“How long do you think I’ve been in this field, boy? I saw as soon as you turned the light back on.”

“Well,” he sighs, “This one’s alive at least.”